


Let me go to the window

by 743ish



Series: A Home Game [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, 1950s, America: It's a Lot to be Captain Of!, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Cold War, F/M, Illicit Relationship, Imperialism, Intensely Requited Love, Jim Crow - Freeform, Korean War, M/M, McCarthyism, Not Agent Carter (TV) Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War II, Sex, World War II, brief Steve Rogers/Howard Stark, combat trauma, not "Endgame" steggy, not endgame steggy, period-typical acceptance of homosexuality, queer community, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/743ish/pseuds/743ish
Summary: He feels like he's been reading the whole day from a book, following each line with his finger, and now that they’re alone, in arm’s reach, with the deadbolt turned firmly on the door, he’s lost his place on the page. He doesn’t know how much he can do, how soon Bucky is willing to let him give in to this. How much longer Steve has to pretend he hasn’t been dying all day from wanting him.===In 1952, Steve Rogers has begun to live again. Down the line, it's gonna cost him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers (past)
Series: A Home Game [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/947910
Comments: 35
Kudos: 104





	Let me go to the window

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. I'm sorry for the long wait on this. If you’ve been subscribed, thanks for bearing with me.
> 
> A note on content warnings: in general, no archive warnings apply. Where there is depiction/discussion of sensitive topics, I’ll use the author’s notes to provide detailed warnings.
> 
> No additional warnings for Chapter 1.

September-October 1952

Of all the Lower Manhattan lunch clubs, Waterman’s is the swankiest and the newest, and the one o'clock crowd sure shows it. They’re all very young and very relaxed and very well dressed as they file in steadily from the shimmering asphalt world of Broadway and Park Row, society girls with their boyfriends, newlywed bankers meeting their wives for lunch, a celebrated artist or two. They’re beautiful, all of them, in their hats and sports jackets or a purse and heels, chattering their way to a white-clothed table under a huge chandelier. Steve always watches them with a sense of envy. He doubts a single one of them has ever noticed that New York City was destroyed in the war. 

He’s been trying not to think about it every time he comes here. Or every time he goes anywhere, really. It’s not something he wants to remember, what the war did to Europe, and compare this to _that_ —he knows it’s kind of obscene. He tries to remind himself, over and over: the streets of Manhattan are the same solid ground they were before, and the pavement is the same pavement. Every bridge still spans its river. Nothing fell down, or was made to fall—even the terrible building where Steve lived with his mother is still there, about ten miles east. But he feels it so strongly sometimes: the city as he knew it is gone, just as surely as a ruined eglise or piazza or unfortunate stadtplatz. And in its place is the undisputed capital of the world. 

The Waterman's lunch crowd have probably all seen pictures of the places where the fighting hit, dreary ruins in black and white, someone else’s tragedy, and Steve guesses to them it might feel like something that happened a long time ago. He looks out the window at the candy-colored cars drifting past, assembly-line fresh, throwing reflected sunlight over a bus-sized advertisement for nylon stockings and the fanciest hot dog stand Steve has ever seen. These kids have every reason to feel that the world has always been like this, and it’ll all stay here, unchanging, until the end of time. The country may be back at war again, but to the general public, Korea is less immediately interesting than Hitler was. The papers are more concerned with the Presidential election than what might be going on overseas. The average civilian living in New York City thinks of September 1952 as a lovely fall in peacetime. 

Steve's been doing his best to join them, he really has. It’s why he’s here today; he’s had a standing lunch date at Waterman’s—twice a month, for over a year—in a concerted effort by some friends to get him back into the world, or something like that. He never skips it, although sometimes he’d like to, when he’s just not interested. But he knows they’re right, his friends. He needs to get out, he needs to do something other than work, try to get his mind off everything. He needs to participate in the world, and not just look at it from the outside. They’re right, so he’s been coming out to lunch at Waterman’s twice a month like clockwork. He's been seeing movies, he goes for walks. Goes to ball games. It’s been successful, he guesses. Incrementally successful. He’s been _trying_.

But now, with the ending of the summer, it’s suddenly easy, and he doesn’t kid himself about why. He’s felt like a different person since he met Bucky. Everything’s a little brighter when he goes outside. People feel a little friendlier. The lunchers at Waterman’s today seem like just a group of nice, happy kids. It’s the damnedest thing. He felt fine before, mostly, but now he can barely stop smiling. 

The others pick up on it, of course. Knox snaps his fingers in front of Steve’s face.

“You with us, Cap? What’re you looking at out there?”

“Sorry.” Steve turns back to the table a little sheepishly. He keeps doing that—of course they’re going to notice. “What did I miss?”

“Jeez, Jack, that whole interesting thing you were saying about the election and he wasn’t even listening.”

Fletcher taps his cigarette on the ashtray. “That makes both of you.”

Steve laughs a little. Fletcher always gets carried away with shop talk. “Sorry, Jack.”

“It’s okay, Steve, I’ll change the subject for you.”

“Oh, well, thank you very much,” Steve says. “Hope you want to talk about baseball or freedom, ‘cause those are my only approved topics of conversation.”

“Christ,” says Knox. “I don’t even know if you’re joking.”

Steve grins and takes the last bite of his Lobster Newburg. He started coming to lunch with Knox and Fletcher out of a sense of obligation, because they asked him to, because they insisted. Eventually it became a habit. And it took a while, but now he actually looks forward to seeing them. 

He knew Knox overseas, in Berlin in ‘48, during the Soviet blockade. The two of them were stationed together, and billetted in the same building. Knox is from Ohio, but after his discharge he moved to D.C. and got a job with the Feds. He always made an effort to keep in touch with Steve, sending him a note whenever he was going to be back in town, taking him out for a drink whenever Steve had to be at the Capitol. It was a nice coincidence that he was reassigned to the FBI’s New York office just after Steve got home from Korea.

Fletcher—John Fletcher, or Jack—is a United States Congressman now, although he was just a Navy patrol crewman when Steve first met him. He’s the reason they come here, to Waterman’s; Knox had tried to have them meet at a diner the first time, but Fletcher said he wasn’t coming all the way downtown to eat a _sandwich_ , for God’s sake, and he always gets the tip, so here they are. The Fletchers are a big wealthy family from upstate, and Jack was pushed into politics as soon as the war was over. Steve bumped into him in ‘46 at one of the innumerable victory galas, and Fletcher asked him to speak at a fundraiser. Steve liked him, and liked his politics, and his support helped get Fletcher elected to the ‘47 Congress. Knox got to know Fletcher during his time in D.C., and the two of them have pretty much been the full extent of Steve’s social life for the past couple of years.

The waiter takes their plates and brings coffee. Steve asks for the check. 

“Why are you rushing out?” Fletcher says. 

“Ah, I got my appointment a little earlier than usual.”

“You heading to the Tower?” 

“Yeah,” says Steve. He’s not even nervous about it this time. He used to dread these checkups at the Tower—it’s always been the worst part of any week, easy. But what is he worried about, really? It’s just a doctor. A few needles. No sweat.

“Say hi to Stark from me,” Fletcher says with a nasty grin. 

“Not a chance,” Steve says. He's been hoping Howard won't be there, anyway. “I’m not campaigning for you anymore, you can do your own ass-kissing.”

Fletcher laughs and slaps Steve’s shoulder. 

“You and Stark still don't talk, huh?” Knox says. 

“Nope.”

“Not even for Fletcher’s little old re-election campaign?”

“Hell no.”

“You ever gonna tell us why?

Steve blows smoke at him and stubs out his cigarette. “There’s nothing to tell, Knox.”

“Sure. I still think he stole your girl.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You know he didn't.” Knox even knows the man Peggy married, and it sure was not Stark. 

“Maybe, maybe not. I should call him, he probably remembers me. I’ll ask him what happened.”

“Nothing _happened_. Howard and I just don’t see eye to eye.”

“Whatever you say, Cap.”

They pay the bill and stand to leave, gathering their jackets and hats. The place is packed today, and they make their way slowly through the maze of other diners to the door. 

“Oh, Cap,” Knox says on the street. “Colonel Langston says hi.”

“Oh yeah? Where the hell’d you bump into him?” Langston was their CO back in Berlin, and Steve knows he's now based in Fort Hamilton. “How’s he doing?”

“Saw him the other day. He's the same as ever.”

“Huh. Tell him hi back.”

“You might get a call from him,” Knox says. “He’s still got a bug in his ass about Korea.”

“What about Korea?” Fletcher says.

Knox exhales his smoke. “You know. Why Cap’s not there.” 

“Oh. Right.”

Steve sighs. “Well. It won’t be the first phone call I get about that.” 

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Knox says. “Langston’s just a blowhard. He won’t be happy until the whole country’s enlisted for life. He’s still giving _me_ shit about it.”

Steve coughs a laugh. “He does not care for civilian work.”

“No shit. I told him I had an appointment at City Hall and he said”—he affects the gruff voice of the Colonel—“ _What the hell for?_ _You got a date with the mayor’s wife?_ ” 

It’s such a good impression that Steve snorts despite himself. 

“Speaking of the mayor,” says Fletcher. He opens his briefcase and fishes around inside. “I was in his office this morning. I mentioned I was seeing you for lunch and he asked me to give you this.” He thrusts a small envelope at Steve. 

“Oh!” Steve grabs it, cracks it and beams at the two little rectangles of card inside. 

“What’s the mayor sending you?” Knox says, trying to get a look. “What is that?”

Steve doesn’t answer him. He tamps down his grin and slaps the envelope against his hand. “Thank you, Jack.”

“It was good to see you, Cap.”

They all shake hands and say goodbye. Steve tucks the envelope safely into his jacket pocket and heads off down the sidewalk in the sun. 

♢

He has to wait two more days before he can make use of the envelope, and even then, he’s so distracted by Bucky standing close to him on the subway that he almost forgets about it entirely.

Usually when he rides the subway he finds a seat in the corner and puts his hat as low over his eyes as it'll go, but Bucky grabs a strap handle right in the middle of the car. Steve grabs the one next to him, and every time the train rocks, they sway into each other a little, and he finds he doesn't care that much after all. 

They’re riding back from the Carlton Theatre on Flatbush. Bucky suggested the movie— _High Noon_. He met Steve at the theater, in a sports coat with his hair combed nice, and he was so handsome Steve could hardly believe he was here to meet _him._ He bought Steve popcorn at intermission and Steve felt himself actually blush.

“So what'd you think?” he says, quietly enough that it feels like a private conversation. “Gary Cooper was pretty good, right?”

But Bucky puts his head to the side and wrinkles his nose. “Gary Cooper was a fucking idiot.”

“ _What?_ ” Steve says with a laugh. “Are you crazy?Did we watch the same movie?”

“The one where Gary Cooper faces down a gang of outlaws, alone? That movie?”

Steve fights a grin, fights a big, loud laugh—he can’t help wanting to laugh all the time, now. He’s still high from the show. From sitting next to Bucky in the dark, from the press of Bucky’s knee against his that hadn’t let up until the lights came back on overhead. The subway car jolts out of another station, and Bucky sways closer; Steve fights his grin and loses. He can’t help it. He’s had such a good day. Nobody recognized him in the theatre. And Bucky is standing there close enough to touch, gorgeous and _teasing_ him over a dumb western as though they’ve done this all their lives.

“You heard him,” he says. “They were trying to make him run. He couldn’t live like that.”

“He could’ve _left_!” Bucky says. “Like Grace Kelly wanted! Gone off on their honeymoon and that'd be that!”

“No, no, no,” Steve shakes his head vehemently. “Then the town would've been taken over by the gang—”

“So what?” Bucky grins. “Those assholes in town didn't want him to stay and fight. They wouldn't even help him out, not one of ‘em. And he stayed to get himself killed for them anyway, because he was a fuckin—”

“But he didn't get killed!” He’s laughing, but he keeps his voice down. A couple of women sitting nearby are looking over at him now, and he thinks they must recognize him, but they haven’t said anything yet. He ignores them as best he can; he’s having _fun_. “He did what was right, and it worked out.”

“Nah, that was luck,” Bucky says. “Idiot luck. The only reason he stayed alive is because Grace Kelly knew how to shoot.” 

“Yeah!” Steve says. “She was fantastic, wasn't she? ”

“Yeah,” Bucky concedes. “Yeah, I liked her.” 

The train rattles around a corner, swaying them close again, maybe a little closer than strictly necessary. Steve could touch him. He’s right there; Steve could let go of the strap and brush his fingers down Bucky’s sleeve—casual, no one would notice. 

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he becomes aware of Bucky staring back, eyes hooded and the ghost of a smile. It’s a secret look, just for Steve; it leaves him breathless. He licks his lips, out of nervousness and, honestly, arousal, and Bucky tracks the movement with his eyes and his ghost-smile deepens and heats. 

“It’s your stop,” he says.

Steve startles and looks around. They’re pulling into Grand Army Plaza. 

He nods and clears his throat. “All right. Uh, I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Thanks for the movie.”

“Thanks for the popcorn.”

The doors open. Steve lets a couple of people go through first, and he steps out onto the platform and turns around to hold a hand up in a little wave. Bucky does the same, and Steve can’t bring himself to turn away yet. He stays by the door, peeking through, and Bucky shakes his head and laughs at him.

More people board the car, and the doors have started to close when Steve remembers—the envelope. He clutches at the breast of his jacket and calls, “Wait!” and darts forward to catch the doors before they’re all the way shut, just gets his hand in there to hold them and they hiss and bump open again. 

“Stand clear of the doors,” the conductor calls, but Steve holds them with his foot and beckons Bucky over.

“What are you doing?”

“I forgot—sorry—” and Steve giggles, fumbling in his jacket; he feels drunk. He finally wrestles the envelope out of his inner pocket and thrusts it into Bucky’s hand. “Sorry,” he says, “just—take this.”

“Stand clear!” the conductor yells.

Bucky snags the envelope and Steve lets the doors slam shut again. He steps back as the train slides away, and Bucky waves to him, the envelope in his hand and his eyes still laughing, and Steve waves back until he’s gone.

♢

He takes his time getting home, just because the weather’s so nice. It’s a five minute walk, but he makes it last. The ice-cream guy isn’t in the plaza this late in the year, but you never need an excuse to pick up a paper, and he lingers at the newsstand under the blazing autumn elms, smiling at nothing. The air is cool and crisp and beautiful.

At his building, the weekend doorman greets him like always— _how you doin’ Captain? I’m fine, Michael, thanks—_ and when he’s upstairs he puts on coffee and brings out this week’s pile of mail to answer. He gets a lot of mail. When he first got back, there was so much that the Army assigned him a secretary, a tidy young fellow named Paul, who has an office at Fort Hamilton and sorts all of Steve’s mail. Paul forwards him everything in weekly batches, and enjoys taking the time to read through them and reply. Since the war, he’s been less inclined toward talking to people and far more comfortable on paper, where he can take his time to think things through; even when he’s only replying to some third grader in Oregon, he feels the importance of Captain America knowing the right thing to say. But, as always lately, he is distracted. The task at hand seems less important than going over the afternoon in his mind, again, again: the press of Bucky’s knee. His lips on a cigarette.

He's only gotten through half a letter when the phone rings ten minutes later. He stands to snag the receiver. “Hello?”

“Been sitting here ten minutes looking at this.” 

Bucky’s voice sends warmth through Steve’s chest. He stretches the phone cord to sit on the couch. “At what?”

“You know what.”

“Oh,” Steve says innocently. “The ticket?”

“Yeah, the _ticket._ Is it real? Game 6?”

“Yep. If it goes to Game 6.”

“In the grandstand. This is a box seat.”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky whistles. “Well thanks, pal. It’s just a shame you couldn’t come too.”

Steve laughs and grips the phone hard, to get out some of whatever it is he’s feeling. The receiver creaks ominously under his palm and he eases back, but God, he loves this, Bucky joking with him. He _loves_ it. “I’ve got my ticket here. I was thinking I could join you.”

"Oh, sure. I’d sit next to just about anyone in seats this good.”

“Nice to know.”

“How'd you get ‘em?"

“The mayor invited me. I get a plus-one, figured my old war buddy might like to come.”

“Right.” His tone turns serious, and Steve imagines he knows the exact expression he’s wearing right now: thinking hard, his brow a little pinched. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” 

There’s a brief silence, and Steve relaxes a little. He’d been half convinced that Bucky would turn him down, would see this as overstepping; too fast, or too public, a thing for him to accept. They haven’t talked, in any depth, about what they’re doing. What it is and where it’s going. That stuff doesn’t matter much to Steve—he’s just following his gut. He had seen something he knew Bucky would like, and gotten it for him, it was that simple. He _thought_ it was simple.

But then Bucky says suddenly, “Oh, shit. Oh, no. I can’t,” and Steve’s heart sinks. 

“What?” 

“It’s my Ma,” Bucky groans. “Oh, God. When I tell her I’m going to _game six of the World Series_ and I’m not taking her—oh, Jesus. She’ll never speak to me again.”

Steve grins. “I can get another ticket. Bring her along.”

There’s a silence. Steve knows what he’s offered: not just a ticket. Not just a day out. He holds his breath.

"Are you sure?" Bucky’s voice is serious.

"Yeah. I’d love to meet her."

“Wow. Okay. Thanks, Rogers.”

♢

It does go to Game 6. Steve calls the mayor’s office and gets them to send another ticket. He can’t get to the earlier games in the series— there’s a bunch of stuff going on this month, and he’s in D.C. through the weekend, but he’s back in town on Sunday afternoon and catches the last inning of Game 5 on the television in the lobby of a hotel across from Penn Station. The lobby is jam packed, but he stands at the back, and if anyone notices him, nobody cares. He barely breaths until they win, and when they do it’s like the team knows about those tickets and has pulled through just for him. 

Bucky calls Steve that evening—Steve doesn’t know where he is, but it’s noisy, and he’s clearly a few beers in—and when Steve answers he just hollers “Game six! _Game six_!” down the line at him while people yell in the background, and Steve smiles and bites his lip and promises to see him tomorrow. 

The mayor sends a car for him right after lunch the next day. The streets in New York City only belong to the cars by the indulgence of the pedestrians—when there are enough people on the street, the cars are out of luck. Today, of all days, Ebbets Field is the center of the whole world; Steve has to get out a block away and walk to the corner of McKeever and Sullivan. He's immediately thronged. He smiles and shakes hands and signs autographs for a couple of minutes until the mayor arrives and the photographers push the crowd back so they can get some pictures. He doesn’t mind the autographs today—this is a public engagement, and he arrived early so he could fit it all in. These people are part of his city, and their team’s on the brink of a World Series win, and he wants to be a part of this day as much as the rest of them. 

And Bucky’s there, suddenly—the other reason Steve is so inclined to be patient with his public duties. Signing autographs is a small price to pay, to know he’s gonna be here, to be able to look up and see him emerging from another car halfway down the block. Steve has to pose some more, and he works hard on schooling his face, despite how crazy he feels. He holds a smile and a straight back and waits for the flashbulb to go off, and when he looks over again Bucky's walking up, grinning, relaxed, with his mother on his arm.

They shake hands, like friends. Which they are. And Bucky says, "Captain Rogers, this is my mother, Winifred Barnes."

Steve hasn't been a bit worried about meeting Bucky's mother—he's been looking forward to it—but when he sees her, standing with Bucky and looking so like him, a different chin but the same big eyes and dark curls, he clams up a bit, his palms suddenly sweaty. He wonders for the first time whether their story holds up—war buddies, reconnecting after a chance meeting—and then he wonders how on earth this can possibly be the first time he's questioned it. Is he that stupid? Why did he think this was a good idea?

But he's pulled out of his budding panic by glancing at Bucky himself, his ease, his grin—not a secret smile, nothing furtive; just a regular, good-natured acknowledgement between friends on an exciting afternoon. Steve breathes. 

"Mrs Barnes. It's wonderful to meet you."

She smiles as he shakes her hand. "Thank you for inviting us. We certainly appreciate the generosity."

"It's my pleasure, ma'am."

He introduces them to the Mayor and they pose for a picture. The _Times_ will print it the next day in their write-up of the game, with a caption that reads _Mayor Impellitteri, Captain Steve Rogers, and their guests_. Steve offers Mrs Barnes his arm, and they head into the rotunda—there’s a huge line of ticket holders that snakes out the doors and off down Sullivan, but you don’t have to wait your turn when you’re with the Mayor. Sauntering past the rest of the poor schmucks used to make Steve feel guilty, but this time he catches the triumphant look on Bucky’s face as they skip the line, and feels his own little thrill. 

In the tunnel, Bucky looks past him, at something on the wall, and he nods over Steve’s shoulder and says,

“Hey, there he is.”

Steve turns to look, and it’s himself frowning back. A poster tacked to the wall, a beautiful full-color painting of Captain America in his battle suit, shield in one hand, staring resolutely into the distance with the slogan _COME JOIN THE FINEST_ splashed across the bottom. 

There’s a second poster a few feet down the tunnel, this time Cap in olive drabs, leading a crowd of shiny-faced boys and all of them smiling under the words _All right, men...let’s go!_ It never gets easier, seeing the worst things he's ever done plastered up for the world to see. He wants to curse out loud, but he’s walking with a lady and the Mayor is beside them. 

“Yep, there he is,” he says instead, flatly, and feels rather than sees Bucky's questioning eyes on him. 

The noise of the crowd hits them as they near the end of the tunnel. Mrs Barnes squeezes Steve’s arm a little and murmurs, “Oh, listen!” He smiles at her as they emerge into the bright stadium, the sky and the noise and the excitement, and he forgets the posters in favor of all that's in front of him. He’s sat in the box seats before, but it hasn’t lost its thrill; they’re directly behind the dugout, can look right down on it, can see the field and the stadium unobstructed and close up. Bucky whistles at the view and catches his eye and—God, Steve starts to feel so good. What a day it's going to be.

The announcer on the loudspeaker introduces the mayor, who stands and waves for a moment. There’s some polite clapping, and also some booing, which they all have to pretend not to hear. And then—

“...and please welcome his guest, Captain Steve Rogers!”

This is met by a roar of applause soloud that Steve’s a little stunned, and it takes him a moment to remember to stand. He shouldn’t be surprised; he's royalty in Brooklyn. He glances at Bucky who’s watching him, grinning and slapping his hand on his thigh. The crowd cheers and cheers and Steve waves and loves them all, suddenly, gratefully. 

Everybody rises for the national anthem. A plane flies overhead during the song, fast and strong against the clouds, and the American flag flutters from the grandstand roof. When the organ hits the high note, Steve actually tears up. _This_ is what he’s been trying to get back to, the chance to stand in a crowd in your hometown and feel connected to everyone around you, to feel their excitement and their disappointment and their joy. He hasn’t felt this way, proud, and _part_ of something, in such a long time. 

Then the game starts, and it’s like the rest of the world goes away. There's nothing but the field and the plays and the nerves he gets from watching, the moment he holds his breath before a catch. He loves this, always has, but it’s even better today because Bucky’s sitting next to him, warm and animated, just as excited as Steve is. 

It doesn’t even matter that the Dodgers lose. Sure he’s disappointed, and it’s a shame that Bucky and Mrs Barnes didn’t get to see a better game, but it really doesn’t matter. The Yankees forced Game 7—that’s all it means. Steve finds it easy to be a good sport today. 

Mrs Barnes sighs and reaches over to pat Steve’s hand. “They’re not beat yet.”

“That’s right,” Steve says. “They’ll pull it off tomorrow.”

Bucky looks at him. “You going to that one too?”

“Nah. The Mayor invited Mickey Mouse.”

Bucky huffs a laugh and shakes his head, and nothing’s gonna dent this for Steve, not the deflated mood of the crowd or the crowd of autograph hunters or the Mayor being a smug asshole about it when he says goodbye, and certainly not the goddamn recruitment posters that ambush him all over again when they go back through the tunnel. He shrugs it off; he only has to glance over and see Bucky standing near him and he knows it’s still absolutely the best day of his whole life. 

It takes a while for the crowd to thin out, and once he’s clear of signing any more programs they cross over Sullivan and back to the waiting cars. 

“Thank you, Captain,” Mrs Barnes says once they’ve reached the waiting cars. “It was a wonderful afternoon.”

“I’m just sorry it wasn’t a better result.”

“Never mind. I got to see them play from the Grandstand. That’s something I’ve never done before.” She pats his arm. “Will we be seeing you again?”

“I hope so, ma’am.”

“You should come for dinner.”

Over her head, Bucky’s grinning at him. 

“I’d like that, ma’am, but I couldn’t impose tonight.”

“Some other time, maybe?”

“Sure. Thank you.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t even know you two knew each other until two weeks ago. Imagine James being friends with Captain America.”

Bucky is visibly holding in his laughter. Steve concentrates hard on Mrs Barnes’ face and tries to sound confident. “It was...lucky to run into him again. Get reacquainted.”

“He never even mentioned he knew you.”

“Oh, he," Steve says, "he didn’t? Huh.”

“Okay,” Bucky says mercifully, “we should go.”

Mrs Barnes shakes Steve’s hand. “Thank you again. You come to dinner sometime.”

“I will.”

He holds the car door open for her and she climbs in. Steve looks at Bucky.

“Don't think I'll stay for dinner either, Ma,” Bucky says, holding Steve’s eyes. The secret look. “Feeling kinda tired tonight. I'll get you dropped off and then head home.” 

“You sure, dear?” Mrs Barnes says,

"I’m sure.” He opens his own door and nods at Steve. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome. Bye.”

Steve closes the door for Mrs Barnes and watches them drive away. He gets into the back of his own car, settles into the nice soft seat, and says hi to the driver, who knows where he lives. They pull away slowly, letting the pedestrians take their time clearing out of the way, and when they turn onto Bedford Ave Steve lets out a long, steadying breath. 

There’s traffic, because of the game and because it’s rush hour, so it takes a long time to get all the way up to the parkway. At the red light, Steve leans forward. 

“You know what? Right around here is fine.”

The driver raises his eyebrows at him in the rear-view mirror. “Here?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna get a drink.”

The driver shrugs and nods, makes the turn onto the parkway and pulls over to the curb where Steve points. Steve thanks him, wishes him a good night, and starts to walk, hands in pockets. 

When the car is out of sight, he turns on his heel and doubles back the other way, east on the parkway with the lights coming on all around him. It’s cold now, dusk, and the air is smoky. Warmth and light wash over him from the doorways of the bars and stores and diners as he passes. He does consider ducking in somewhere for a drink, just to have a place to sit while the minutes tick by, but he finds he can’t stop. He jaywalks over the cross streets; his pace picks up without a conscious decision to walk faster. At Kingston he turns south: less foot traffic, fewer people to dodge around. Fewer people to recognize him. The night is falling fast by the time he reaches Crown, and he almost misses the black car pulling away from the corner. A figure ascends the steps to Bucky's house and goes inside—it's him. He's home.

Steve opts for the back door, knocking sharply twice. Bucky answers immediately and his face barely changes when he sees it’s Steve. 

He steps back and lets him in without a word.

Once he’s inside, Steve stops and waits, more for guidance than anything else. He feels like he's been reading the whole day from a book, following each line with his finger, and now that they’re alone, in arm’s reach, with the deadbolt turned firmly on the door, he’s lost his place on the page. He doesn’t know how much he can do, how soon Bucky is willing to let him give in to this. How much longer Steve has to pretend he hasn’t been dying all day from wanting him. 

It’s always like this, Steve finds out later. Maybe it always will be. No matter whether they’re desperate and tearing at each other or tender and slow, there’s always the moment of hesitation before they come together, the pause when the door closes, and the conversation stops, and something else begins. 

It turns out Bucky wants to wait a little bit longer, but only a little. He puts his keys in his pocket and looks at Steve briefly, and the brevity of it, the nervous way he flicks his gaze away, tells Steve that Bucky's holding himself back just the same. He turns and moves, and Steve goes after him: out of the kitchen and further into the house, through the small living room that Steve has seen two times before—dim now—and Bucky doesn’t pause to close the curtains, doesn’t turn on a lamp. He continues into the front hall, rounds the corner and starts to climb the stairs. He doesn’t look back, and Steve’s footfalls sound in syncopation as he follows. 

The upstairs hall has three doors off it, and Bucky takes the one nearest the landing. It leads to a small room, without much in it—Bucky’s bed, a nightstand with a radio, an old dark wardrobe against the inner wall. There’s a faded rug on the floor and a big dormer window above the headboard. Bucky stands in the middle of the floor, still, and still waiting. It’s a little bit like looking in a mirror; Steve recognizes his own restlessness in the set of Bucky’s shoulders, feels his own anticipation in the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. 

And on Bucky’s face, the question, can I. And the answer, yes. 

Steve forgets that he shouldn’t have the first idea what he is doing. As soon as they touch, it stops mattering. He goes from one thing he knows to the next—belt, buttons, shoes, socks, and then skin, and _skin_ , and his open mouth dragging across Bucky’s jaw. 

He moves without planning it, without a thought for anything but the points of hot contact between them in each moment before it passes. He doesn’t think about an endpoint. There is no destination here, no terminus to aim for, and Bucky seems content with that, perhaps even pleased, letting him, never directing him toward anything more. It’s always like this, too, Steve will be thrilled to discover; even later when he gains a little more finesse, Bucky will always let him take his time. They _have_ time tonight, is the thing. They're as removed from the rest of the world as they will ever be. The understanding is dawning now, of how crucial timeis going to be for them, and maybe how rare.

So Steve draws it all out, and commits each image to memory: the flush of color that crawls down Bucky’s neck, and the paleness of his torso and his thighs; the way he writhes and arches on his back, his face twisting open-mouthed into the crook of his arm. How Steve’s own body blazes the first time Bucky says _augh!_ with the sound cracking gunshot-sudden into the quiet of the house. 

He doesn’t think about an endpoint but it arrives anyway, after a long, long climb, and they recover together, returning to themselves, slipping back into time as it exists in the real world. Steve feels a sharp sense of loss that it’s over; he wonders if Bucky feels it too but doesn’t ask. It’s a little silly—he’s never felt so happy, either. But it’s another thing that will happen each time with Bucky, something Steve will come to expect, this sadness that swells in the wake of the euphoria.

He goes home before midnight. 

“You don’t have to,” Bucky says, still warm in the bed, and Steve could cry for how hard it is to leave him there. But he shakes his head.

“I got an early car for the airport.”

“Oh,” says Bucky. “Where you going?”

“L.A.”

“Oh yeah? You got a meeting with some hotshot producer or something?”

Steve shrugs, straight-faced. “I don’t know if he’s a _hotshot_ ,” he says, and grins when Bucky laughs.

Besides the early car, there’s a sense of something—decorum, maybe—that makes him worry about sticking around. Bucky has a whole life in this house, and despite everything Steve can’t shake the feeling that to stay would be an intrusion. There will be other times, he thinks, and he’s right. They’ll have breakfast together in Bucky’s kitchen not ten days later, early so Bucky can open the shop by seven, hot buttered toast and coffee and two cigarettes in the ashtray, and Bucky snickering when Steve cuts himself rushing to shave with Bucky's razor; the kind of easy togetherness Steve truly thought he'd never have again. But tonight, he tells Bucky not to get up to see him out, and the inky chill of fall bites him almost affectionately as he closes the back door behind him.

He grabs a taxi on Albany Ave, just for the pleasure of sitting in silence, leaning his temple against the window and watching the streetlights slide by. There are a thousand taxis out tonight, carrying a thousand passengers all leaning against their own windows and enjoying the solitude of night in the city. They watch the same streetlights, and they let themselves dream, the things people only think of when they’re alone—their most valuable things. The things they wait all day for the chance to sit and dream of. _His face_ , Steve thinks, _and a question, and the answer_ , and his taxi merges into the flow of traffic and joins them, heading home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by Dreadnought.
> 
> Fic title is from the Carl Sandburg poem 'At a Window.'
> 
> Chapter 1 title is from the Charlie Parker/Dizzy Gillespie track. Listen to it on the fic playlist [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4ft5mecGv1SIlrt2doWWGO?si=VjFHQduySManb977RUr38w)
> 
> I’m going to put my historical/cultural notes up on tumblr. I’ll update with a link when they’re done.


End file.
